The cyborg has tiny shimmering friendly eyes, two little hematites smiling at you from behind two pairs of glasses. He dreams of concording automatons, switching between his left and his right arm, he gathers words, throws them into his computer program, and creates linguistic order out of human chaos. He’s a Benedictine divinity, and a very approachable one—one that suffers from a serious disease: THE WORD. THE WORD is his vice and venom, his nectar and elixir of immortality. THE WORD in its materiality, THE WORD stripped to its bones, ripped apart, resown. No WORD escapes the tiny shimmering scrutinizing hematites of Pippo Savoca, the true cyborg of Catania, not one indeterminate article or a mischievous grave accent can save itself from his army of doctoral algorithms. Are they hostages or denizens of his lexicographic-philological utopia? “The answer to everything is not 42. It’s CTRL (or ⌘) + M.” A delirium of bled texts fills his bookshelves, dripping series of grammatical categories and keyboard shortcuts out through the door across the bridge (Etna fuming in the distance) and down the stairs across the Giardino dei Novizi some hallways into the basement pass the Sphinx-gaze of the library keeper then up again through the front gate down Via Antonio di Sangiuliano all the way to the best libraries of the world. Leopardi, Petrarca, Palazzeschi, Montale, Gozzano, LEH-OH-PAR-DEEH the mummies of their texts are there, carefully disemboweled and emptied out, freed from mortal bile and vinegar—jars and jars of preserved organs defying cosmic entropy—and filled with rows of neatly strung together paradigms like dry tobacco leafs. I got a lighter waiting for your rolling paper. Care for a smoke?
To be continued…
May 15, 2019